


it's been one week

by dasseinhundin



Series: One Large Coffee, Cream No Sugar [4]
Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Comedy, F/M, Fakir's on the floor again, Grad student Fakir, Pining, Senior Ahiru, Surprise! - Freeform, Teacher-Student Relationship, meddling mytho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 04:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasseinhundin/pseuds/dasseinhundin
Summary: He hears Mytho sigh. "Fakir, you cannot be serious."On the contrary, Fakir is quite serious. He's even more serious than the stroke he will undoubtedly have by the end of this semester. But he does not vocalize his opinion on seriousness and stress-induced cardiovascular problems, electing to instead blatantly ignore Mytho's exasperated noises.[In which Fakir makes a big ol' oopsie daisy, Mytho continues to prove he is the Best Friend and calls him on his bull, and Ahiru is Not Having Any of It.]





	it's been one week

**Author's Note:**

> Far in the future of the timeline. I have begun to realize that all of my favorite parts of this series involve Fakir and Mytho shenanigans wherein Fakir ends up on the floor.

"Again?"

Fakir's stare burns a hole through the ( _admittedly half-decent, for once_ ) essay on his desk. His red pen is clutched so tightly in his hand that he can feel the plastic warping beneath his fingertips, and idly he wonders if he can break his best friend's neck as easily as he can break this pen. Not that he ever would, but with the pointed look the pale-haired man is giving him from the doorway, the idea's appeal begins to grow. However, he manages to bring his homicidal rage down to a more suitable level for a professional environment and continues correcting his students' papers.

He hears Mytho sigh. "Fakir, you cannot be serious."

On the contrary, Fakir is quite serious. He's even more serious than the stroke he will undoubtedly have by the end of this semester. But he does not vocalize his opinion on seriousness and stress-induced cardiovascular problems, electing to instead blatantly ignore Mytho's exasperated noises.

The clock on the wall is very loud, and Fakir kind of despises how he subconsciously counts each tick of the second hand. Somehow, though, Mytho manages to be even louder in his disapproving silence. He's not sure how it's even possible to hear someone frowning, but the man manages and after seven minutes Fakir is ready to pull his own hair out. He slams his pen down on the desk and swivels in his chair to face him.

"What do you want, Mytho?" Fakir asks acidly.

Mytho does not back down to what Fakir himself considers to be a pretty formidable glare, but that probably shouldn't surprise him considering how long they've been friends. Instead, Mytho frowns at him. Fakir wonders idly how low the corners of his friend's mouth can even go, because right when he thinks that Mytho's orbicularis oris has reached its limit, the muscle's dedication to dissatisfaction continues to impress.

"I want you to be honest with me." Mytho says, crossing his arms. "Why have you been canceling all of your classes? This is the third one in a row."

"I had a personal situation that needed to be handled," Fakir responds cooly.

It isn't a lie, technically speaking. He really does have a personal situation ( _rather,_ _ **crisis**_ _,_ ) going on. Whether he's actually  _handling_  said situation, however–well, he won't bother with semantics.

Mytho's frown deepens, and Fakir scowls at the way his friend's golden eyes pick him apart. He knows him too well, and it is proving to be his downfall. There is an air of concern in his voice when he asks, "What situation?"

For a moment, Fakir actually feels bad for making his best friend worry like this. Then he remembers that it's Mytho's fault that his girlfriend nearly crucified him when she heard that voicemail they left on her phone when the man pocket-dialed her, and the guilt he feels immediately shrivels and dies. He keeps his lips sealed tight and turns away to resume his grading, but Mytho circles his desk and stubbornly continues to pry.

"Fakir, talk to me, please." Mytho implores. "If you're in trouble or something, tell me."

Fakir glowers, ears burning despite his best efforts as Mytho continues to try and get him to share what could possibly be serious enough to cause Fakir to cancel class. He briefly considers telling him, weighing the pros and cons of telling his meddling best friend that he has essentially royally screwed himself. On one hand, the relief of actually telling somebody is terribly tempting. The guilt has been eating him from the inside out, and his nerves are so raw that he's pretty sure his hair is going to go white.

On the other hand, if Mytho ever finds out what occurred, Fakir will never hear the end of it. He can imagine it now: Mytho will get that awful, stupid grin on his face and then he'll make that  _noise_  and then Fakir will have to throw himself out a window. He'll have no choice.

Another, more threatening possibility occurs to him as well: if Mytho gets wind of this,  _he might tell Rue._

He'll take the crippling guilt, thanks.

"It's none of your business." Fakir snaps, adjusting his reading glasses before making an unnecessarily harsh mark on his student's paper. He can feel Mytho's worried stare as he nearly rips the paper with his pen, and he's about to kick him out when three sound knocks come from the door.

_"Faki–ah, Professor Lohen?"_

Shit.

Mytho's brows quirk in surprise, turning to the door. "Is that Ahi– _rummph!_ "

" _Shhh!_ " Fakir hisses desperately, clamping his hand over his friend's mouth. He pulls Mytho to the floor beside him, edging his way back behind his desk. "Do you want her to hear you?"

Mytho pulls his hand away from his mouth, whispering confusedly. "Is she not supposed to hear me?"

"No!"

A light of realization sparks in the man's honey eyes, and Fakir thinks that this would be a prime time for that aneurysm to strike. It would be a blessing, really. Anything to keep him from having to answer the knowing question he can see ready to burst from Mytho's lips.

_"Uhh…Professor Lohen?"_ Ahiru calls, voice muffled behind the heavy door. Fakir feels an overwhelming wave of gratitude that he'd had the foresight to lower the blind over his door's window before setting to work.  _"Are you there?"_

"Fakir," Mytho whispers inquisitively, "Are you avoiding Ahiru?"

Fakir clenches his teeth to suppress a groan. The sound is telling enough, but his knee-jerk reaction is to  _deny, deny, deny,_  so deny he does.

"Absolutely not."

"Then why do you not want to answer the door? I think you're avoiding her."

"You're insane."

"Says the one who pulled me under a desk."

Fakir will give him that one. For some reason, since Ahiru has come into his life, Fakir has found himself on the floor more and more in times of crisis, and he's not really sure of how to feel about it. He takes a small solace in the fact that at least the carpet of his office had been recently vacuumed.

_"I must sound really weird if you're not in there, talking to a door and all…then again, I guess there's nobody really around to sound weird to, but talking to myself is pretty strange anyway, huh?"_

Fakir digs the palm of his hands into his eyes, suppressing another strangled groan. Mytho nudges him with his foot, and he makes to swat him away like an irritating pest. A few feet away, he can hear Ahiru continuing to ramble behind the door. A new knot of guilt winds tightly in his gut when he hears how upset she sounds.

_"I know you must be mad,"_  She continues, voice so quiet that he almost misses it over his own squirming.  _"But I think we really need to talk about what happened! I don't…"_

Fakir doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Mytho's elbow forces it from his lungs.

"Tell me what's going on right now." Mytho demands, features stern. The look completely juxtaposes the childish way he keeps poking and prodding at him like an excited toddler. Fakir scowls at him.

"I told you, it's none of your business!"

"Tell me or I'll let her in."

He freezes, malachite eyes widening slightly with panic.

"You wouldn't," Fakir challenges, though the slight quivering of his voice betrays his bluff.

Mytho quirks a snowy brow, daring him to not take him seriously. When Fakir makes no move to explain, he inhales deeply.

"Coming, Ah–"

Fakir dives at him, slapping his hand to Mytho's mouth while slamming his head into the bottom of the desk with a loud crack, rattling all the contents on top of it. " _Shut up,_  you idiot!" Fakir hisses, eyes wild with alarm as he hears Ahiru jiggle the doorknob.

_"Mytho? Is that you?"_  She calls, baffled. Fakir tightens his grip on Mytho's mouth, peering around the corner of his desk to glance at the door in anxiety. The doorknob jiggles again, and his heart thunders so hard against his ribcage that he feels like he might puke.  _"Hello? Let me in!"_

" _Tull mph._ " Mytho demands behind his hand. " _Tull mph nah!_ "

Fakir weighs his options with dread. On one hand, he remembers the sharp, warning stab of Rue's french-tipped finger against his chest and the thinly veiled threat that followed. But on the other, he has his worst nightmare quite literally banging on his door, and if there is one thing worse than Rue's wrath, it is having to face Ahiru after what happened. He decides to risk disclosing what has transpired to Mytho, and prays that twenty years of friendship trumps violent, overprotective girlfriend privileges.

"Fine, fine." He acquiesces. "Just wait until she leaves. And you can  _not_  tell Rue."

Mytho's golden eyes widen, knowing that this precursor could only have incredibly sensitive information follow. Fakir releases his death grip on the man's face to make sure he gets verbal confirmation that what he tells him will not under any circumstances reach Rue's ears.

"I promise." Mytho says seriously, expression sober. It's the most serious that Fakir's seen him today, and as wary as he is to feel his girlfriend's wrath, he can at least count on Mytho to stay true to his word.

_"Fakir, let me in! You can't ignore me forever! We have to talk about this!"_

Fakir peeks around the lip of his desk to glance at the door again anxiously. He can see the girl's faint silhouette behind his door's blind, but her efforts to open the door begin to lessen after a frantic minute of angrily jiggling the handle. He watches with baited breath until he hears a defeated, irritated sigh, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall.

As soon as it sounds like Ahiru has cleared the immediate area, Fakir gives a shaky sigh of relief. Said relief is short-lived, however, when Mytho levels a fairly impressive frown towards him. Honestly, how the hell is his mouth not tired from doing that?

"You know that she'll be back, right?"

Of course he knows that. Ahiru is one of the most stubborn people he's ever met, which is quite a feat considering who he is as a person himself. All this has done is confirm that he is avoiding her, and if there is one thing he knows that the redhead does not take kindly to, it's being ignored. He knows it's only a matter of time until she hunts him down to talk out what had happened. Curse her and her stupid, endearing, moronic sense of righteousness.

Fakir lets his head fall against his desk drawer, staring up at his office ceiling. The fan above them swirls around lazily, and he closes his eyes because all the motion does is bring up memories of piña coladas and phone calls and quite frankly the thoughts make him ill. He lets out a weak sigh.

"Yeah," He mumbles. Fakir would try to sound more irritated, but quite frankly the guilt and his throbbing head are putting a rather large damper on his temper at the moment.

"So what happened?" Mytho urges.

Fakir brings his knees to his chest and buries his face in his arms, humiliation and self-reproach burning in his chest. He can feel his ears burning too, though whether it is more from embarrassment or shame is anyone's guess. He manages to choke out what happened, but it's so quiet that Mytho misses it.

"What?" Mytho asks again. "Fakir, you need to speak up."

" _I said I kissed her!_ " Fakir shouts, bursting like a tea kettle. He instantly deflates, curling back into himself in shame.

Mytho for once is blessedly silent, seeming to need a moment to process the information that Fakir had just threw in his face. He risks a peek from beneath his dark bangs towards his friend to see his reaction and immediately regrets it, because if the ceiling fan is making him a little sick, the grin on Mytho's face makes him want to puke.

"When did this happen?" Mytho asks excitedly, eyes bright with joy. "How did this happen? Oh, this is wonderful, Fakir!"

"You and I have two very different definitions of wonderful." Fakir grinds out.

"How did this happen?"

Fakir swallows thickly, recalling the memory in vivid detail. They had been in the library pouring over one of her recent assignments. It was an essay for another class, but she'd all but begged him to help her proofread it, so being the spineless pushover he is, he had agreed. Fakir can't really recall what exactly had lead to them being so close in the first place–all he knows is that at one point they were shoulder to shoulder looking over one of the pages, and suddenly he had his lips pressed against hers.

"What happened then?" Mytho asks, enthralled.

Fakir scoffs, cheeks flaming. "I did the only sensible thing I  _could_  do: I got the hell out of there."

"You left?" He asks incredulously. Fakir scowls.

"Of course I left! I'm not just going to sit there and–and–" He can't even finish the sentence, mortification paralyzing his tongue. " _Dammit_." He swears, burying his face in his hands. "What am I going to do, Mytho?"

Mytho hums, surprisingly sympathetic to his friend's suffering. "Well, first I suggest that you stop avoiding her and actually talk about what happened. Running away is not going to solve anything."

Fakir wants to argue that it's been working out pretty well so far, until he feels the knob of his desk drawer dig in between his shoulder blades and he reminds himself of where the hell he's sitting. He groans, because as much as he hates admitting that Mytho is right, he can't keep hiding under his desk forever. He's already pretty sure that the crick in his neck from being crouched down isn't going to go away any time soon, either, and it just adds salt to the wound. But talking to Ahiru is something that he would very much rather avoid at all costs for the forseeable future, so for now he thinks he wants to take his chances.

Unfortunately for him, however, Mytho is irritatingly good at reading him, and calls him out before Fakir can even voice his protest.

"If you don't talk to her," He threatens, "I'll tell Rue."

Fakir gawks at him, betrayal clear on his face. "You promised you wouldn't!" He says furiously.

"I know I did, but you can't keep this up, Fakir." Mytho looks him in the eye, and Fakir wishes that he could hate him despite how genuinely concerned he looks. "I know that you're scared, but if you leave things the way they are now, then it's only going to go from bad to worse."

Curse him and his rationality, Fakir thinks scathingly. He finally sighs, defeated.

"Fine, I'll talk to her." He concedes, albeit begrudgingly.

"Good," Mytho says simply, standing up. He dusts off his pants with a few pats before heading to the door. "Now that I've finally gotten my answer, I believe that it's time I take my leave. You're still coming over for dinner, yes?"

Fakir glares at him from his seat beside his desk.

"I think I may have to take a rain check." He grinds out.

"Very well." Mytho replies airily. "It's too bad, Rue was making a cake."

"I'm sure I'll live." Fakir says. "And you're awful, by the way."

"It's only because I care, Fakir." He responds, waving over his shoulder as he exits. "Happy grading."

Fakir watches him go with a sense of dread. He can trust that Mytho won't actually tell Rue, but it is only a small consolation prize to help ease the anxiety writhing in his stomach. He remembers the sound of Ahiru's defeated tone and guilt burns white hot in his chest. She thinks that he's mad at her? The concept is practically laughable.  _He's_  the one who had overstepped the line, and the fact that she somehow thinks it's her fault just makes him feel even worse.

For a moment he entertains the idea of just living under his desk for the rest of his pathetic life, living off of granola bars and the water jug in the corner of the room until he realizes that Ahiru had eaten his last one last week. With a defeated groan, he pulls himself back up into his chair to continue about his miserable fate, but not before hitting his head on the edge of the desk.


End file.
